Courious case of Calico Jack
by Blue eyes Red heart
Summary: The new tenant of 221c has a fondness for classical music, backless dresses, and the rare oddity. Sherlock Holmes seems to have acquired a fondness not only for her cleaver cat but the young woman herself. Sherlock Holmes and Hermione Granger shipping.
1. Chapter 1

***Curious case of Calico Jack***

The new tenant moved in the night before last. Mrs. Hudson had told him they were getting a neighbor -a female college student that didn't mind the dampness of 221 c. That was a month before the apartment was gutted and rebuilt. There would be no concern of mold after the workers were done. Then a snooty woman with red hair and too much make up came in and picked out wall paper and the marble for the fire place. The back wall of Mrs. Hudson's establishment was torn out and a chimney was constructed in compliance with the city codes.

Then the movers came and moved in a full size bed several boxes and a large grand piano. Sherlock had not seen the new tenant yet but along with the movers came an orange cat in desperate need of a good comb. Sherlock's curiosity was piqued and he was bored so he sent Jon to the store to pick up cat treats before sending the doctor home to a pregnant wife.

Sherlock left his door open so he could hear when the new tenant arrived. After persuading Mrs. Hudson to let the new tenant's cat out of the flat (he could have sworn he heard it meowing) then luring it up stairs with cat treats and let it set in his lap for half an hour. The cat and he became good friends.

The cat took Jon's chair facing him so to listen to every word of the relative differences of rare animal hair when the front door opened and closed.

The door of the new tenant's flat was ajar and Mrs. Hudson quickly interceded; explaining that the cat had been meowing and was free to run about but because she didn't want to cut the poor dear off to his home she left the new tenant's door cracked.

Mrs. Hudson apologized when the girl kindly comforted and thanked the landlady for her thoughtfulness.

Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear the girl's soft foot steps up the stairs. The door remained open, she knocked on the door frame, "Darling, I'm home." She announced in a sweet coaxing voice, the cat's ears perked and he meowed it was the first sound the feline had made all evening.

"Please come in." Sherlock invited standing to receive her properly, not expecting the formality of her attire or the vision she made in it.

Almost a woman. The dress was a floor length red ball gown-slit up the front, her knees peeked out when she walked in her soft black leather ballet flats, odd choice for a ball gown. Her hair was braided along the right side of her head and rolled into a bun at the base of her neck. She looks elegant and young, too young.

Mrs. Hudson had warned him their new tenant was young- going to university.

Sherlock averted his eyes because, no matter how much back this girl showed, he was still painfully aware that she was just a little girl.

"Hello, you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I'm Hermione Granger." She introduces herself gliding over to pick up her cat, which is now sitting on the arm rest apparently waiting for her attention. She doesn't bother to look at Sherlock when she introduces herself.

The cat meowed again its head turned almost accusingly towards Sherlock. "I see love, they said you were meowing." the beast did so again, in obvious protest.

"Well it's time for bed. I ate at the banquet with Harry." She was talking to her cat, and Sherlock almost liked her for it.

"He hated the treats you tried to feed him, he hid them in your fire place when your back was turned. Please don't feed them to him again." The Miss Granger instructed adjusting the feline in her arms to hold him like a baby.

"What may I ask are you studying at university, Miss Granger? It seem improbable that you can afford to gut a flat on student loans." Sherlock's small talk is strained and comes out nosy and insulting as usual.

"The general. My parent were not poor, and I am good with figures. I like the bison skull on your wall, it reminds me of some kind of heavy metal band, Led Zeppelin perhaps… The ear phones are humorous." She comments and he sees it, she hasn't looked away from her precious cat, cooing over the thing, yet she makes a spot on comment that appears off handed.

"Would you like a drink?" He asked faking the qualities of a gracious host. Her eyes flicker towards him, they are golden brown and her red painted lips part almost to accept, "Not out of that kitchen, or anything you prepare for that matter. You seem like the kind of man that would poison my drink. Luring kittens out of their homes." She smiles before again turning to leave. There are yards of fabric and too much exposing skin when she turns her back to him.

She reminds him of the woman.

His eyes narrow in on her and his lips turn into a fine line. "Do you play games, Miss Granger?" He asks he can't keep the edge out of his voice, he hopes she hears the lure- the way Jon did.

She stops and slowly turns to look at him. Her eyes swirl with something he doesn't know how to read and this frustrates him. Is it anger, is it curiosity, no something else something he doesn't understand but his, Sherlock Holmes and he has to understand.

"Not unless I must." She declares. Then she lets him see, her eyes are screaming for him to leave her alone.

"Don't you like a good mystery? A puzzle?" He asks almost challenging.

"You miss understand." She tells him, turning away from him again. Dismissing him and walking out of his flat.

"What do I miss understand." Sherlock is at the top of the stairs yelling down at her, she has reached the door of her flat, her hand on the door knob.

"People who play games, Mr. Holmes, like to win." She explains and he suddenly understands all too clearly. She doesn't like to play because she never wins.

Suddenly she is extremely boring.

"Calico Jack is welcomed in my flat anytime he likes." Sherlock announces just as she moves to walk through her door. Suddenly she again turns to look at him only this time her eyes are filled with surprising anger. "What did you call my cat?" She demands the ice in her tone, enthralling.

"I didn't know his name so I had to make do." Sherlock logically explained. The cat meowed it sounded like an insult.

"His name is Crookshanks and we would both be appreciative if you did not go around naming other people's animals." Hermione practically screeched.

"Oh, Crookshanks, is a much finer pirate name then Calico Jack!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Why even with the patches of mismatched gingered fur, his really not a calico at all." Hermione glares at Sherlock again and there are so many dark promises that linger there behind that feminine façade that she is suddenly mildly interesting again. Then she shut the door effectively cutting off anything else he was about to say.

**~You are invited to the wedding of Molly Hooper and Peter Humphrey~**

Molly's wedding was that following afternoon and Mary inconsiderately decided to go into labor. Sherlock's plus one suddenly became a plus none.

The door knocker to 221 Baker Street was straightened putting Sherlock in an even darker mood. He adjusted it accordingly then climbed the stairs to his flat fully expecting to find Mycroft sitting haughtily in Jon's chair, only the flat was empty.

Sherlock checked every room wondering if Mycroft was hiding somewhere, just when he decided that was absurd he heard the front door open, the door knocker straightened, and the front door closed.

Crookshanks wondered up the stairs about that time and helped himself through Sherlock's open door and into Jon's empty chair.

Sherlock went back downstairs to adjust the door knocker only to find it had been remounted perfectly centered on the door. The thing wouldn't move from its precise position.

Sherlock cursed and returned to his flat sitting down in his own chair and complained loudly about Miss Granger's actions to her cat. Then Crookshanks stood showed Sherlock his tail and left the flat unimpressed with the detectives rant. Sherlock pulled out his violin and took his frustration out on the strings.

Mrs. Hudson arrives with his tea and Sherlock realizes its morning, he also realizes that he stayed up all night waiting for Hermione to return to her flat, which she never did. When he complained of this out loud along with the promiscuous this suggests, Mrs. Hudson corrected him kindly. That Hermione had returned late last night and had already taken breakfast.

Sherlock paced for five minutes, picked up his violin then remembered the grand piano that the movers hand carried into Hermione's flat after the renovations.

He stormed down stairs in his pajama pants, robe and house shoes banging on her door loudly. It was Saturday, therefore, it was unlikely she had nowhere to be. It took her three minutes to answer her door, her hair in a sloppy ponytail, she was bare foot and in her own, what he assumed was pajamas: A silk robe decorated with a tropical floral print, a white silk camisole, and a pair of matching silk shorts.

"Can I help you?" She asked looking neither tired or awake and completely unsurprised to see him in her door way.

He was intrigued that despite the absence of the suggestive red dress, she was still very pretty.

"Why did you fix the knocker?" He asked rudely blocking her entire door way so she couldn't slam the door in his face. Only she doesn't even try and this somehow disappoints him.

"Mrs. Hudson was complaining about how shabby a crooked knocker looked on the building. I tried to simply straighten it but when I went back out someone had turned it crooked again, so I remounted it. This is a decent place and Mrs. Hudson has only been helpful and kind- not only to me but to you as well." Hermione defends and Sherlock is eyeing her like she is a liar.

"It's odd isn't it, that you paid movers to carry in a piano that you never play." He had more accusations. She wasn't sure of what he was trying to imply so she simply looked at him patiently waiting for him to embellish.

"A big instrument like that, I would have heard you play, felt the vibrations in the floor." He stated almost in her face so he could tell if she lied. She swept her hair back and opened her door a little wider. From the door way one could see where the massive cherry wood piano sat, blank sheet music on the shelf, Crookshanks lounged lazily across the top.

"Mrs. Hudson mentioned you played the violin, several times, when I inquired about this flat." Hermione stated with an eye roll. "And since I play the piano it seemed courteous to have the room sound proofed when I had them remove the dampness." She explained like it was all completely logical.

Which in a certain light it was.

"You're composing." He notices. She doesn't affirm this and when he pushes past her, she only half heartily objects.

"Play for me. I would like to hear you play." He commands sitting on her couch that faces the fire place, he props his feet up on her polished coffee table like a king conducting court. The room is tidy, bookshelfs on every wall filled to the brim. There are small signs of feminine touches. Framed pictures mostly; pictures of an older couple undoubtable her parents- who from her current living conditions, their last conversation, and the photo's centered placement on her mantel, they are recently deceased. The other pictures are of her and two boys, she's always in the middle; they all look to be the same age but the pictures are at different time in their upbringing and all at different locations. She is well traveled.

"That is not a good idea, Mr. Holmes." She warns still holding on to the door.

"Keep the door open, Mrs. Hudson would like to hear you as well." He proclaims. Hermione sees there is no arguing and the only way to get rid of him is to play.

Hermione doesn't say another word until she is seated. "What I was working on, or something completed?" She asks.

"Surprise me." he states almost condescending.

But she does.

It's beautiful and filled with passion. The notes twist and turn and are wound so tight. Sherlock is sure something is building, something is going to break- then the notes soften and swoon as they reach a tipping point and fall like a waterfall, cascading down in a melody of wonder and beauty. He closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine that this is a concert hall for an audience of one. She pulls at the notes again adjusting them just so to end in contentment, parting ways like old friends. He opens his eyes and notices Mrs. Hudson standing at the door all misty eyed.

"That was lovely. I have never heard anything so beautiful in my whole life." She declared.

Sherlock stands abruptly, _perhaps a concert for two then_, he thinks to himself glaring at Mrs. Hudson.

"Don't look at me like that Sherlock, you're a fine musician too." She tells him like a mother praising a second rate child, this Sherlock is used to.

"What are you doing tonight?" He asks Hermione as she turns and looks up at him from her piano bench with her big golden eyes.

"Studying." She tells him, shortly. He does not grasp her irritation.

"I need you to accompany me to a wedding." He tells her.

"No." She replies simply, standing and stretching. Her robe inches up and Sherlock does not allow himself to process the exact surface space of newly exposed skin. "We only meant last night, I'm not going to a wedding with you."

"I'll go with you dear." Mrs. Hudson offered.

"Not someone old." Sherlock complained. Mrs. Hudson huffs and flees the flat.

"My plus one's wife just had a baby, I need a new date. Your parents were dentist, they left you a large sum of money that you have wisely invested. You have always been smart, top of your class, you're hiding from something; a lover, a broken heart. You're insecurities lie more in your academic pursues then social life. And though you can't be more than eighteen and the fact that this is your last semester at university- make your fear of failure illogical. So your fear is deeply suppressed, perhaps projected in your of rather provocative attire." He rants, showcasing that perhaps he knows enough to take her to a wedding.

"Fun party trick." Hermione comments with an amused smile.

That's it- that's all she gives him, clearly unimpressed with his powers of deduction. It was all rather anti climatic.

"You could wear the red dress." He suggests. Not just because he likes the red dress, he really does, but in case it's about clothes, girls are funny about such things.

"Is it an ex-girlfriend's wedding?" She asked with a bit more curiosity than a simply no.

"No." He answers not seeing the relativity.

"Then you don't get the red dress." She bluntly states.

"So you will be my plus one?" He asks again perhaps a bit more eager than he should.

"If you can dance?" She says, eyeing him with purpose. He smiles wickedly.

"Can you?" His now more than mildly curious.

Sherlock arrived on her door step an hour before he told her he would pick her up. She answered her door with a scarf around her head, make-up on, and jewelry in place; a single thin gold chain around her neck with a ruby heart that sat perfectly in the center of her chest. She was wearing her teal robe with tropical orange floral print. She did not appear to be wearing anything else underneath.

"Are you wearing panties?" He asked for clinical reasons only.

She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Are you?" She asks turning and walking into the other room without another word.

He tilts his head just so and makes the imperial decision that yes she was in fact wearing knickers, but not a bra. That could complicate certain activities for the evening, he really didn't want her jiggling about as he twirled her around the dance floor.

It took her fifteen minutes to change and do her hair. He used that time to go through her sheet music and a few of her books. She had excellent taste in novel, education, and music. She returned in a gold daring neck line dress that was several inches above her knees in the front and back but tapered out elegantly for the show of length at the sides. The skirt was a wondrous thing, three layers of sheer material and reminded Sherlock of a flower. There was no bulk but he was sure that when he twirled her the image would make a lasting impression. She turned to once more coo at her cat and he notices that once more she has chosen a dress without a back. The lack of bra puts a damper on his night, but then if she wishes to jiggle about who is he to argue.

When Hermione takes his arm he realizes that she has grown five inches, he curses. Her eyebrow quirks, "Is there a problem?" She asks.

"You are ruining my night." He bluntly tells her, silently cursing the French for making high heels socially acceptable for women. Whom simple were not as graceful while wearing them and dancing. And since she hadn't wore them with the red dress it seemed illogical she would wear them with a shorter one.

"Please explain how in fifteen minutes, I have already ruined your whole night?" She licks her lips and the look in her eyes holds a challenge. If he tells her he will possible lose his plus one, but this is Sherlock Holmes and he certainly doesn't know how to hold back.

So he tells her. Her lack of bra, her high heel shoes, his plans for dancing- how it all interlock and effects one another.

She laughs. It's high and filled with delight like his made the funniest joke ever. "Thank you." She tells him. And he is confused. "I promise none of your concerns will interfere with our dancing plans tonight. I only said yes to your offer because I haven't been out dancing in ages. I don't jiggle, I have an adhesive bra on that prevents it and my heels are for your comfort more than for showiness. Your half a foot taller than me, if we are to dance all night, I don't want your posture to suffer for it. These shoes are comfortable enough." She assures him and his looking at her like she's somehow strange.

He simply nods, reaches over and picks up her favorite pair of black ballet flats. "Just in case, Miss Granger." He tells her tucking the shoes into his coat pocket. She smiles and he leads her out the door.

Mrs. Hudson tries to ooh and ahhs over them, she too is dressed nicely, but she is not ready to leave quite yet, Sherlock simply ushers Miss Granger on and hales a cab.

**No Girl Should Cry in the Bathroom on her Wedding Day**

There was a girl crying in the loo.

Hermione and Sherlock had arrived at the wedding two hours before the event was even to start.

After their long car ride of license plate alphabet, Hermione needed a break from the insufferable man, and the girl's loo seemed like a good escape because Sherlock Holmes was a sore loser.

Hermione entered the bathroom and sitting in the middle of the floor with yards of white fabric all around her, and tears streaking her face, could only be the bride.

"Molly Hooper, I presume?" Hermione asked crouching down very lady like and holding out her hand to the sobbing woman. The bride nodded and shook the offered hand.

"I'm Hermione Granger, I came with Sherlock Holmes." She explained so the woman wouldn't wonder how she knew her name. The woman stopped crying long enough to look at Hermione from head to toe before she began sobbing louder than before.

Hermione leaned over and draped a friendly arm around the woman's shoulders. Letting her cry out whatever was bothering her.

Molly finally calmed down long enough to take a couple of deep breaths and she again looked up at Hermione. "How old are you?" the bride managed to ask.

"Why are you crying?" Hermione asked, making small soothing motions on Molly's back clearly concerned.

"He said my dress was white." Molly hiccups out.

"It is white, aren't all wedding dresses white?" Hermione reasons.

"Need a splash of red…Because apparently I'm a whore." The sobbing starts again. Hermione goes back to making soothing circles on Molly's back.

"And the flowers died. I'm supposed to walk down the aisle with flower on either side like a princess from a story. Never been married, thirty five- I'm a spinster not a princess." Molly bellows.

"Molly, who called you a whore?" Hermione calmly inquires, already guessing - there weren't a lot a people who had arrived yet, now were there.

"He didn't call me a whore, didn't have to. It's implied like all the nasty things he says. Your tall, dark, and handsome date. Oh those eyes." Molly sounds bitter. This hurts Hermione's heart, she doesn't know Molly but no bride should sound bitter on her wedding day.

"Well his old isn't he. His friend's wife had their baby. He was more than a little desperate- banging away on my door like a lunatic. He didn't want to show up alone. Pathetic really." Hermione knew the facts would make Molly Hooper feel better to hear, particularly that Sherlock didn't want to show up alone to her wedding. Molly Hooper was getting married, she needed to move on from the sociopath in her life, no matter how dreamy his eyes were.

"I see." The bride commented looking a little brighter.

Hermione helped clean Molly up and get her back to her room. Then she called Neville and asked him to meet her in the garden in two minutes and gave him a list of what she needed.

As always Neville never let her down.

It either took an hour for her date to find her or an hour to realize she was missing, she would bet on the later. When Sherlock found her in the garden making the final arrangements for Molly's special day, he was clearly impressed.

"Peter was complaining about the flowers, said Molly was heartbroken, came out to see if there was anything to be done. Did you do all this?" He asked skeptical.

"I had help." Hermione admitted. Pointing to a man covered in dirt near the alter.

Neville stood from where he had been kneeling; planting orchids. He was filthy, had worked like a mad man trying to get things done in time. "Finished! Hermione, I hope your friend has her fairy tale wedding." Neville smiles, nods to Sherlock politely, then leans over and gives Hermione a kiss on the cheek.

"Give my love to Luna!" She calls out as Neville picks up an empty clay pot and walks to a red van sitting on the curb that reads 'Longbottom's Floral Arrangements'.

"Why would you do this?" Sherlock again is accusing, his looks suspicious like she is a villain from a perplexing case of his.

"Because no bride should be crying in the bathroom on her wedding day. Not even promiscuous ones that wear white." Hermione declares pushing past him and marching gracefully back into the building. Hoping to avoid him until the ceremony. Mrs. Hudson is better company, anyways.

Sherlock squeezed into the pew next to her just as the music starts to announce the commencing of the ceremony. Everyone is in awe over the mini enchanted forest that has been created within the garden the white pews are an elegant touch. "Are you mad at me?" He asks, draping an arm around his date with more familiarity than he had any right.

"Why would you think that?" She asked looking up at him clearly confused, her tone is level and her pupils do not dilate.

"You are my date." He informs her like she forgot.

"Yes, I'm well aware, but not everything is about you, this moment is about Molly and Peter." Hermione explains like his a simpleton.

"So I have upset you. You don't even know Molly Hooper or didn't until this afternoon." Sherlock reminds her.

"I think we are missing each other's point. The garden is your apology for indirectly calling her a whore. When she thanks you, you will accept with as much humble civility as you can manage and then I will dance with you."

"I don't respond well to blackmail. Besides why would she think I had anything to do with this?" Sherlock inquires his hand making a sweeping motion indicating the garden.

"Because you're the only one that Peter confided in, and because you have a bit of your own magic or so your friends believe. I am not trying to blackmail you I'm trying to help you."

"Why?" He looks disturbed by the very idea.

"Because I don't try to name other people's animals or feed them junk food." Hermione explains.

"So you _**are**_ upset about that." he replies like he just unraveled a clue.

"I'm disturbed that you treat your friends the way you tried to teat my cat. Only my cat was too smart to fall for it." She explains looking up at him like he should understand.

"I'm afraid you have lost me, Miss Granger, and that is very hard to do." Sherlock practically shouts. Several people look at him, including George Lestrade, before rolling their eyes and dismissing him just as easily.

"It's because I'm speaking a different language. You rename your friends to fit them in your life and to your whims, then you feed them your bullshit and expect them to digest the empty compliments- with the expectation that they will come back for more." She sounds righteous in her explanation and yet he understands, sort of, what she's talking about.

He squints his eyes and smiles. "I like you." He points at her, shaking his finger like she's a naughty girl. He looks upset but he says those three words calmly, almost frighteningly so, like he can't keep himself from saying it.

She laughs like his made another good joke.

"Jon called it sentiment." He tells her his fingers covering his mouth in a habit that she would not recognize within their short acquaintance.

"Sentiment is subjective by emotions, Mr. Holmes. Trust and respect are measurable virtues." Hermione has taken on a scientific approach to dealing with complicated relationships. And this one is fast becoming very complicated.

"Oh yes, Miss Granger, I just might keep you." He declares his free hand reaching over and squeezing hers almost reassuring. He drops it as the bridal march starts and they all stand to watch Molly enter, the look on the brides face is one of wonder and makes Hermione smile widely.

No one notices that while everyone is watching Molly's reaction, Sherlock is watching Miss Hermione Granger.

Molly is gushing. "Peter said he told you, how did you? Oh, thank you so much, Sherlock!" the bride is holding on to her new husband's hand while giving Sherlock an awkward one sided hug. Hermione is standing at Sherlock's side a proud look on her face.

"You have done so much for me Molly Hooper, you deserve the perfect wedding day." His smile is strained but his words are true. He actually means them. Hermione is somewhat surprise he doesn't outright lie. He doesn't exactly take credit for the garden but he doesn't deny credit either. She wonders if this has more to do with her threating to leave early than anything else. Molly gives Hermione a small smile before releasing Sherlock. Peter pulls his wife over to the dance floor and Sherlock takes the grooms lead, his arm encircling Hermione's waist as he guides her over to finally start their night.

They dance for an hour while the dining room is set up. She glides and twirls with more grace and poise than any partner his ever had. She was right the heels help, mostly with her own leg length in proportions to his own. Her skirt twirled in just the way he hand hoped and her brown curls looked almost golden in the sun. People were watching, even the bride and groom stopped dancing to watch before awkwardly toe touching, and Sherlock floats with his date around the dance floor enjoying the evening just as much as he would have if someone had been murdered.

* * *

A/N: There are three chapters to this crossover story, the other two chapters are mostly written. I don't use a beta its too time consuming. I do try and proof read several times, but I do miss things. My brain knows what is suppose to be there so sometimes it auto corrects mistakes in my head- so I don't always catch things on the drafts. Sorry...but I'm not fixing it. I just need it out of my head. Review if you like. This was inspired by a two day marathon of Harry Potter then BBC Sherlock. Plot bunnies are evil-


	2. Chapter 2

**Poor Sportsman**

Sherlock Holmes was an insufferable man. Hermione was never home for more than half an hour before the man was at her door banging away for a cup of sugar, which would lead to snippy comments then to stupid games where he made up the rules, then lost horribly and pouted like an imprudent child.

"What exactly are you studying at University, Miss Granger?" It was not the first time he asked.

"Public relations." She answered, this time sparing him a glare from over her book before turning back to her studies.

"So politics?" He pressed, wanting a more definitive answer.

"Today, yes." She smartly responds.

"Tomorrow, what will you be studying?" Sherlock inquires, while setting up their latest game, Risk.

"That depends on the class, doesn't?" She tells him like his questions are tedious and a waste of her time.

"So, Miss Granger, what class do you take on Wednesday?" He was clearly becoming frustrated.

"Tomorrow is Tuesday, Mr. Holmes." she corrects him kindly. He glares at her from across the game board.

"You like being mysterious." He tells her.

"Not at all, you are just boring me. My book on 1800 parliament niceties is more fascinating then you at the moment."

He smirks at this, because it reminds him of something he would say to his brother. "Then I fascinate you at other times, do I?" He sounds exceedingly arrogant, she frowns.

"You have your moments. This is not one of them."

"What exactly is so boring about me just now?"

"Let's start with the fact that you want to play a board game." the word practically stick to the enamel of her clenched teeth.

"That by definition is what such games are for." He argues.

"Well I read when I'm bored."

"Well it is a war game, I understand with you being a girl if..."

"Funny thing about war, it doesn't discriminate. If I play your silly game and win will you leave me alone for a month?" she sets the wager.

He pulled a face, the not likely, you must be a nutter face.

"If you win I'll leave you alone for a week. If I win you get to go to the morgue with me!" He made it sound like a trip to a theme park.

"Two weeks. I have a lot of studying to do." She tells him again looking up from her book. "Or I could just lock you out, call Greg, do you think he could find probable cause to have you imprisoned for two weeks." Sherlock doesn't understand.

"Greg? Who's Greg?" Sherlock asks clearly having forgotten the Detective's name again.

"Greg Lestrade, you work with him on solving murders. Nice man, his elderly mother isn't doing so well she's in a retirement home off courtside. He and I got talking at the wedding, I offered some sound advice on dealing with her growing dementia. I think he likes me." She smiled, it was blackmail, evil girl. He should never have taken her to that wedding.

"That's not funny." He tells her darkly, knowing that Lestrade would lock him away so long as he wasn't being useful, and all it would take was another imaginary drug bust.

"See me not laughing." She replies, the ice is back in her tone.

"Alright, two weeks if you win." He concedes. "With a field trip."

"No field trip." She eyes him and he knows that look, now she thinks his nutters.

"Fine, Miss Granger, you drive a hard bargain. A month, one field trip." It's his final offer.

"Deal." She concedes closing her book to finally give him her full attention.

She murders him. Really its world domination so elegantly orchestrated he has no idea until it is far, far too late to do anything but sit back and let her waltz across battle fields.

It's one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. Only Mycroft ever beat him at this game, it was usually his crowning victory.

Miss Granger won the game, then stood collected her cat and left him to his defeat without a single word of mockery or insults, it was almost too much to bear.

Sherlock spent the next two weeks staring out his window, Crookshanks spent more time in his apartment then at her flat.

He watched the street, recording her comings and goings, there was something notoriously strange about her and he wasn't just saying that because she beat him at his favorite board game. It was odd that she would leave then appear in her apartment again hours later without passing his window, or walking through the front door.

When Mrs. Hudson brought his tea to him on the fourth morning he had gone without sleep she looked somewhat disturbed.

"Why haven't you slept, Sherlock? It's been nearly 96 hours." Mrs. Hudson sounded concerned.

"I will sleep when I discover how that girl is getting into her flat without using the front door to 221. It's curious is it not that there have been countless times I have watched her leave through the front door only for her to reappear hours later in her flat, without ever having come in through that door." He yells, clearly his lack of sleep effecting his already prickly personality.

"It's because she uses the back door dear." Mrs. Hudson informs him.

"There's no back door." Sherlock argues, again the landlady is in on the cover up story.

"Yes there is, through the laundry room. I showed it to you when you moved in. You haven't been back there in years, _since you don't do your own laundry_." The last sentence is said condescending like he doesn't know how. Sherlock ignores the landlady's comment.

"Must have been deleted." He whispers to himself aloud, still eyeing the front door with distaste.

**Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Jon Hamish Watson**

The field trip is to a spacious townhome forty minutes walking distance from Baker Street. Sherlock is sure they are being followed but his unable to get a hold on the actual direction of whoever it is. Male, soft footed. There is a shimmer the suspect is blond and then like magic he vanishes like a trick of the light.

Hermione knows where Sherlock is taking her, she simply doesn't comprehend why. They have known each other for two months the highlight of their relationship has been one night of dancing, petty games, and her trying to avoid him. Now they are standing at the door of the most important person to Sherlock Holmes and her heart is fluttering like a silly school girl.

A blond man with greying hair answers the door, he looks irritated and when he looks up at Sherlock he looks down right pissed.

"What the hell do you want?" the man bits out.

"Thought you might need some help." Sherlock states waiting to be let in.

There is a baby crying in the house and an older child screaming, a woman trying to hush them kindly.

"Mary is not feeling well."

"So you texted me." Sherlock reminded the fine doctor.

"Two weeks ago." Jon reminded the detective.

"Doctor Jon Watson, this is Hermione Granger." Sherlock finally introduced her. Jon turned assessing her- Jon look haggard and in need of some sleep.

"Hello." Hermione smiled and held out her hand. Jon simply looked at it without shaking, then back at Sherlock.

"So what, you brought me a nanny? A Housekeeper?" Jon guessed clearly tired and upset over more than his inconsiderate colleague.

Hermione tried to not laugh.

Sherlock looked offended. "Certainly not, Miss Granger is…"

"What your girlfriend." The doctor jokes looking up at Sherlock and pauses at the look on the detective's face. It was a look Jon was familiar with.

"Certainly not!" Hermione declared, before smiling at Jon and walking into his house without invitation. Leaving a catatonic Sherlock in the care of the good doctor.

Hermione introduces herself to Mary Watson then catches the three year old little girl with pudding on her face running around like a hellion and holds her up so they are looking eye to eye.

"I'm Hermione, what is your name?" Hermione asked the little girl with dark brown eyes and beautiful wheat hair.

"Cheryl." The child stated looking at her captor suspiciously.

"Do you like stories Cheryl?"

"My dad tells me stories, mysteries. Mom tells me fairytales. I preferred the fairytales but I've heard them all." The little girl informs her.

"I bet I have one you've never heard. _The Wizard and the Hopping Pot_." Hermione's voice is perfect for casting spells, and little three year old, Cheryl Watson, is held captivated by her every word as she cleans her up and changes her clothes. The little girl assisting when the moment is needed as Hermione unravels the tale with the efficiency of a gifted storyteller.

By the time the story is over Jon and Mary are standing shoulder to shoulder listing with intrigue, Sherlock is not in the room, and Cheryl is nodding off in Hermione's arms.

Hermione passes the child over to Mary, who nods to her gratefully, before leaving the room with her daughter.

"Albert is asleep." Jon states.

Hermione smiles, "I was hoping to provide Mary with the distraction needed. Petit chaton sounded hungry."

"You're good with children. Plan on having any of your own? Sometime soon?" Jon asks almost awkwardly.

"When I find a partner, perhaps. I have lots of friends with little ones. I don't mind helping where I can." Hermione tells the doctor.

"Sherlock tells me you're at Oxford." Jon states.

"A grand insult to his pride." Hermione jokes.

Jon snickers. "And you are studying law?"

Hermione laughs. "Didn't he tell you? I'm getting a PhD in animal studies." She informs Jon Watson.

"You are? What exactly, kind of work…"

"I'm interested in endangered species." Hermione informs him.

"What a fascinating choice of study."

"It is, isn't it?" Sherlock comments, taking a drag from a cigarette from the open balcony. Like a bat hiding in the shadows.

Sherlock turns to look at Hermione_, game and check_ma... Only she is smiling and that look he doesn't quite understand in dancing in her eyes.

"Smoking in front of children, what would the good doctor say?" She challenges, and Jon turns to witness Sherlock quickly putting his cigarette out.

"Jon, she didn't see, anything! I just lit the blasted thing, Jon!" Sherlock yelled as Jon charged towards the detective with murder in his eyes.

**Of Goldfish and Other Aquatic Specimens**

Hermione could hear Sherlock talking to someone from the stair case, her bare feet making her steps nearly silent. The door is wide open as he often kept it. She knocked on the door frame to announce her presence. Sherlock assumed she had just returned from school; she wore a sweater dress, her hair in a French twist, her pearl earrings her only adornment, she looked lovely.

"Is Crookshanks in here?" She asked when Sherlock turned to give her his undivided attention he stood in between the two arm chairs in front of the fire place the game battleship set out on the coffee table and another man in an expensive grey suit stood in front of Jon's chair. The other man was middle aged, balding and his features indicated he was some relation to the detective.

"Crookshanks was refereeing." Sherlock states pointing to the mantel. Hermione looks up and notices the cat sitting very still watching everything going on in the room. She walks over and holds out her arms, Crookshanks leaps down in them, and the man Hermione doesn't know takes a step back from them in surprise.

"Why would you want to spend your day with such a lazy beast I'll never know?" Hermione questions. Noting that Sherlock Holmes is still in his PJs.

"His not overly lazy." Sherlock sticks up for the cat.

"I wasn't talking about him." Hermione clarifies.

"I had thought that thing was stuffed, it hadn't moved the whole time I was here." The older man announces obviously unnerved.

"Hermione Granger, my brother Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft- Miss Ganger." Sherlock introduced. Hermione held on to Crookshanks with one arm reaching out and shaking Mycroft's hand, he touches only her finger tips as he eyes the cat cautiously.

"Nice to meet you." She states politely, her tone is screaming_: oh no not another one_, and then she turns to leave the flat, only Sherlock is blocking her path.

"We were just about to play a game. Do you want to play, Miss Granger?" Sherlock asked. Earning a scow from his brother as well as Miss Granger.

"She always wins the games we play." Sherlock praises.

Hermione blushed and shook her head. "No I really must be going." she declare attempting to side step Sherlock.

"It's called deduction." Sherlock encourages side stepping with her.

"A young woman of Miss Granger caliber wouldn't understand..." Mycroft started to insult.

"How do you play?" Hermione asked.

Sherlock smirked- leave it to Mycroft's insults to persuade the righteous.

"Mycroft will go first." Sherlock announced tossing an old green scarf to his brother. Mycroft caught it and began making his deduction of who the owner of the hat is. Sherlock kept interrupting. "You miss his isolation." Sherlock says for the third time. Again Mycroft ignores the comment.

Mycroft tosses the green scarf to Hermione she catches it one handed still holding on to Crookshanks. "This is a stupid game." She states eyeing the brothers, really not wanting to play.

"Told you. Women often..." Mycroft started but again is interrupted by Hermione.

"I'm not a goldfish." She declares like she can't hold it back any longer. "I could hear you as I was walking up the stairs, I walk softly. I'm not a goldfish, and neither is Jon. Goldfish died with too much stress and chaos. Jon thrives on it." she reasons.

"You said you didn't want to play…" Sherlock interrupts taking the scarf from her.

"This isn't about the owner of the scarf. It's a deduction of your isolation Mycroft Holmes. Your brother is poking fun at you only you are too stupid to see it." Hermione is screeching, tears on her cheeks. She didn't want to play this stupid game. Why are they so competitive and heartless?

No one interrupts, no one moves, they both stare at her looking like they are the goldfish.

"He likes to poke fun at you, The British government: a fat, antisocial bore that gained power with pretty words and brown nosing." She takes a breath and hugs Crookshanks as if his comforting her. "If any of that holds a sting of truth it seems rather odd then that you would sully yourself with hacking into the mainframe of every British satellite after your brother's excommunication to video feed the ploy of a terrorist's resurrection. Not to mention the grunt work of infiltrating a terrorist cell just to pull out your baby brother whom you despise. _The East Wind is coming for you little brother_. Hardly. You love him. You're lonely without him- you missed him for the two years he was gone and couldn't bear the thought of him leaving you behind again. All this talk of goldfish..." She can't stop, she knows she should but she's been pushed and Sherlock wanted her to play the game, so she will play just to shut him up.

"There are more fish then goldfish, like clown fish…" She looks at Sherlock. "Or Cod fish…" She shoots to Mycroft. "Or even sharks…" She takes another deep breathe, "Your scarf owner is an arrogant prick whose girlfriend is only mildly more disturbed then he is, and his not nearly as smart as he likes to pretend. Yes, even with his isolation he has a girlfriend, longer dark hairs woven through the fabric. He is a blond, his parents are blond, so more than likely a girlfriend. There is someone for everyone Mycroft Holmes, I just hope that when you meet your goldfish your snooty personality doesn't scare them off." Hermione finishes pushing past Sherlock and escaping down the stairs to her flat.

"Girl doesn't even have the decency to slam her door at me." Sherlock peeks down the stairs shaking his head.

"How does she know his parents are blond?" Mycroft asked reaching for the scarf obviously not put off with her assessment of him

"She cheated, that is why she always wins." Sherlock states.

"How do you cheat at this game? Sore loser are you now? I know that look, she's too clever for you, Sherlock. Stick with dominatrix." Mycroft suggest, tossing the scarf back at Sherlock before making his way to the door. "As always brother dear." With a nod Mycroft leaves Sherlock alone in his flat.

"She cheated, because she knows who is stalking her, only question is why she hasn't asked for help." The detective whispers to the wallpaper.

**Boys in Photos**

It is three in the morning and someone is banging on the door. Sherlock is not sleeping his doing an experiment on ocular nerve damage and heat temperatures but that's not really the point, the point is that some bloke is pounding on the door at three in the morning. Mrs. Hudson answers it just as Hermione stupidly opens her door. Who knows who this young man is and there she is in the thick of it. Someone is out there, stalking her every move, and she opens her door to yelling. Stupid girl.

The young man in question is yelling at her, loudly, why she didn't answer her cell or other means of communication, he shouts. He has jet black hair that is sticking up all over the place and metal rim glasses, yes Sherlock can see all that in the poorly lit hall way. So not her stalker.

It is one of the two boys from the photos in her flat.

She is whispering to the young man trying to calm him down. "Guess I'm sleeping with you tonight." The young man boldly claims throwing his arm over her shoulders.

"Harry!" She exclaims leading him into her flat, the door shutting behind them. Crookshanks finds his way up stairs five seconds later hopping on top of Sherlock's mantel lounging lazily. The cat spares him a grumpy look before closing its eyes and presumably falling asleep.

"And she says you're not a lazy beast." Is Sherlock's reply.

Her foot steps are too dame soft, her fingers run through his hair waking him in an instant. "Lazy men." She sighs. Sherlock looks up shocked, she never touched him beyond a professional-has to basis. He is the one to purposely invade her personal space.

He looks up to find that she is using metal prongs to pick up and toss out all of the eye balls he cooked the night before.

He sets up watching her clean up his mess. He obviously fallen asleep at the kitchen table while conducting his experiments. It smelled like cooked flesh, even though she has opened a window and turned on a fan.

"Any findings you might have actually uncovered are rubbish. Your choice of tools is lacking and juvenile. A blow torch?" She rolls her eyes.

"I improvised." He tells her grouchily.

"Where's your boyfriend?" He asks snidely. She stops what she is doing at looks up at him with a tilt of her head.

"Went home to his wife." She tells him before returning to discarding his chard eye balls. She doesn't even make a face as she tosses the last one in the trash.

"Then who is the bloke that woke us all up last night screaming your name and claiming your bed?" does he sound jealous? He tries not to sound jealous.

"Not exactly my boyfriend. A good friend. I often let him sleep over when marital bliss isn't quite so happy ever after." She explains.

"That would make you a home wreaker." He observes. Hermione quirks an eyebrow.

"If I had sex with him it would. Sadly, I just let him warm my bed, his a good cuddle." Hermione clarifies.

"So you're a tease." Sherlock rationalizes.

"Harry is like a brother only not, I could make him sleep on the couch, but I won't. I like having one uncomplicated relationship in my life, and that one would be with my best friend who just happens to be a bloke." she explains.

"There is always the implication of sex between a man and woman to ever allow them to truly be platonically friends. . ." Sherlock informs her.

"Is your arse jealous of how much shit that just came out of your mouth." she asked looking completely honest in her inquiry. "You are certainly not the first person I would take relationship advice from. Jon likes to compare you to a hound, but I really had no idea how close the likeness was until you just said what you just said. You have a very shallow view of the world and people in general. Are you saying that you have wanted to sleep with every woman you have ever meant or only the ones you contemplating being friends with." Hermione asks expecting an answer.

"Oh but you are too clever Miss Granger. I don't have friends, I have a friend, and I certainly never contemplated becoming friends with a woman."

"Because..." She needs him to finish his chauvinistic view- to voice it so he can hear how illogical it is out loud.

"Because they are weak, emotional and manipulative. Sex is not worth the price of agony they put men though to listen to their excessive nagging."

"Yes, and no man was ever a high maintained drama queen." She smartly replied.

"I think the correct term is drama king." Sherlock snidely remarks.

She laughs. She likes to do that. Laugh like his funny; only Sherlock Holmes has never been known for his humorous anecdotes.

"Oooh, must have hit a nerve. Mrs. Hudson says you're a dragon slayer, don't make the mistake of ever thinking me a damsel in distress. I nag because I care." she walks around the table and is standing next to his chair almost leaning over him. He looks up into her challenging glare, the same one she gave him when he tried to rename her cat, and he realizes she is right she doesn't fit into the role of damsel. No, that had been Jon's role- she was different a sharper weapon more hesitantly wielded.

"You should get that put on a t-shirt." Sherlock comments dryly, realizing she rarely nags on him. So what was so special about this morning? What was she doing in his flat?

"You can get me one for Christmas." She tells him. "I brought you a present. A Bunsen burner with a temperature gage for more accurate results. It's the removal of thumb prints next, right?" She asks walking over and pulling the Bunsen burner out of her purse setting it on the kitchen table.

He looks like Christmas has come early. "You are a different breed of woman, Miss Granger." He tells her standing to tower over her in approval.

"And you are a different breed all together, Mr. Holmes." She tells him, she does not spare him another look as she coos to her cat before leaving the detectives flat and out the front door, no doubt to school.

He ventures down stairs to find Mrs. Hudson. It's an auspicious occasion and the landlady looks frightened at him sitting at her kitchen table. Crookshanks is setting in the window above Mrs. Hudson's sink staring out into the street.

"Here is your tea, dear." Mrs. Hudson serves the tea and some cold biscuits.

"When is her lease up?" Sherlock inquires, pointing to Hermione's door across the way.

"She doesn't have a lease, can leave whenever she pleases." Mrs. Hudson sounded sad over the possibility

"Have you seen Jon's new baby? A boy." Mrs. Hudson coos pulling out her phone, no doubt to show the same picture he has on his mobile.

"Yes, Albert. When is she out of university?" He asks, Crookshanks looks back at him and Sherlock could swear the beast rolls its eyes.

"Thought you were supposed to be observant! She graduated in May and this is August, Sherlock, she started her new job a week ago." Mrs. Hudson announced.

"I was not invited to a graduation party of any kind." Sherlock sounded offended.

"Neither was I but she talked about it. That boy with the glasses threw her one, his married you know, but I think his regretting the decision he spends a lot of time with Hermione." Mrs. Hudson gossips.

"Yes, so he had the party at his house?" Sherlock inquired clearly Hermione confides in Mrs. Hudson, heaven knew why.

"At a pub. She said it was lovely, all her friends where there. She got smashed, and danced the night away. The boy that purposed to her right out of boarding school was there, kept his hands to himself for once. Hermione's vocabulary seems to grow when drunk, and she doesn't slur a single word, she almost sounds French if you can believe it."

"Why wasn't I invited?" He was cataloging everything he was just told. He hadn't known about the proposal but this reinforces his initial reading of her, she was running away from an unwanted lover. She was an independent woman.

"Sherlock, love, I don't know if you have noticed, but you're not exactly friends with her." Mrs. Hudson points out.

"Course I am, I leave my door open, so she can come and go as she pleases." Sherlock argues.

"Her cat dear, not her. You are friends with her cat."

He can't help if he looks a bit put out by this realization.

"Where does she work?" He inquires.

"Some government agency that works with endangered species." Mrs. Hudson informs.

"Of course." This does not surprise him.

**Borrowing and Burglary**

The first time he actually meets the best friend is when Hermione is away on holiday.

A trip to Australia. She was to be gone for two months and even though she didn't tell him she was leaving (he found out through Mrs. Hudson). The fact that she didn't ask for Sherlock to take care of Crookshanks is what truly offended him.

The morning after her departure he heard someone in her flat so using the key he barrowed weeks ago from Mrs. Hudson to Hermione's flat and then forgot to return, or did he have a copy made? Either way he had access.

The bloke with black hair that stuck up in all directions and rim glasses attacked him with a stick. "What the hell do you think you are doing, Mate?" The young man asked eyeing Sherlock like he was going to jam his stick up the detective's nose.

"Making sure Miss Granger wasn't being robbed." Sherlock partially lied. Deciding that this boy had obviously done some time in prison especially if the young man found it necessary to carry around a shank.

The young man looked at Sherlock with assessing green eyes. "Fair enough. You must 221 B the Sociopath. I'm Harry Potter, best friend." Mr. Potter withdrew the stick and put it in his pocket holding out his hand suddenly friendly enough.

Sherlock shook it. _Poor eye sight, childhood malnutrition, inherited money, time in prison, a soldier of some kind not Afghanistan or Iraq, good heart, better reflexes, another oddity_. Hermione seemed to like oddity.

"Sherlock Holmes." He introduced himself shaking the boy's hand. _Dry palms_.

"Yeh, it's a bit early for us to be meeting. Oh well." Harry states. Walking into the kitchen and pouring water from the tap into a bowl. Crookshanks jumps on the counter and drank from the bowl.

"You have a fan, by the way. Hermione told me about a blog that Dr. Watson wrote. My wife enjoys your adventures…If they are true... I see why she likes you- you're clever, like her." Harry states looking at him with an even friendlier smile.

"Your wife?" Sherlock asked, not sure why Harry's wife would say such a thing.

"Okay, maybe not that clever. My wife decorated this place, for Hermione. If was finals week at school when she decided to move, so Ginny made most of the aesthetic decisions- turned out nice huh?" Harry asked, Sherlock cataloged the insult away for later. This boy was smart, he was simply playing dumb.

"Ah! The crabby red head." Sherlock stated, hoping to get under the boy's skin. Then maybe Mr. Potter would drop the act.

"Her brother is an arse. Ron wants to marry Hermione, it's what we had expected, but I'm happy she chose a different path."

"I saw you the other night, what kind of man runs out on his wife in the middle of the night to share a bed with another woman?" Sherlock asked, this boy was good the game they were playing, this Harry Potter was dodging answers like a seasoned criminal.

"One that runs out of the patience for dealing with Weasleys. My wife knew where I was, it was her idea. Ron can be a hand full, and sometimes he makes our house a war zone. Ginny has the patience for dealing with him. I don't. If I kicked him out he would have come here, then who would have protected Hermione?" Harry asked pouring food for Crookshanks.

"She told me she didn't need protecting." Sherlock tell him.

"And yet, here you are in her flat, because you thought there was a break in. Interesting." Harry states. Yes this boy liked for people to underestimate his intelligence.

"You like to play dumb don't you, Mr. Potter?" Sherlock calls him out on his game.

"Play? I am dumb. I understand people far more than I understand facts, Mr. Holmes. How did you get a key?" Again he changes the subject.

"She gave me one." Sherlock lies.

"No she didn't" Harry calls his bullshit.

"I swiped it." Sherlock admits, more because he might like this boy.

"Are you planning on hurting her?" Harry asks like it's a possibility.

"No." Sherlock seethes, because he knows it's not.

"Then you can keep it and I won't tell her you have it. Also you can feed Crookshanks, save me the trip. He likes you." Harry observed, the cat was rubbing against the detective's legs. "And that creature only likes Hermione." Harry adds as an afterthought.

"It was nice meeting you, Sherlock Holmes." Harry sounds sincere, grabbing his coat off the couch.

"Wait, you said the boy that purposed to Hermione lives with you?" Sherlock suddenly has an idea.

"Yes." Harry's interest is apparent.

"I need you to deliver a message." Sherlock requests, his voice has that wicked edge to it.

And Harry Potter again smiles at him, this time it reaches the boy's peculiar green eyes.

**Friendly Game of Chess**

Sherlock sat in his chair and listened to the heavy footsteps up the stair case.

He had grown accustom to leaving his front door open so when a tall, freckled face youth walked through the door frame without asking and stood, where clients stood, staring him down like he would like nothing more to rearrange Sherlock's face, Sherlock could only deduce that this was the bloke that had asked for Hermione's hand in marriage some time ago and had gotten Sherlock's message about a possible meeting.

"Ronald?" Sherlock greeted.

"Don't get to call me that. Ron will do." The red head says continuing to stare angrily at the detective.

"Do have a seat, I would like to discuss..."

"Yeh, alright." Ron interrupts rudely, seating in the uncomfortable wooden chair provided. The young man slouches and stretches his legs out in front of him, making himself comfortable. "Hermione mentioned you. Her neighbor, fond of her pig with hair. I'm not as smart as her, but I understood your invitation well enough." Ron explained looking down his freckled nose at Sherlock. "I have lots of complexes, five older brothers will do that. I'm fifth best to my mom, second best to my best friend. I'm used to it. I learned to deal with it. But it's hard to deal with coming in third place with the girl I love. Harry will always be first, to everyone: fine his humanities gift or whatever. But I won't play second fiddle to a pretty face dandy with no extraordinary usefulness, not when it comes to Hermione."

"Oh so you play the fiddle!" Sherlock asked clearly surprised and delighted by the information.

Ron looked confused, "No." He clarified quickly. "It's a figure of speech you tosser." The red head frowned and shook his head.

"I play chess, though. I hear you play chess too." Ron states looking at Sherlock like his a tasty treat.

"I play a little." Sherlock modestly admits, his not sure why his being modest.

"Ok. Wagers then." Ron states.

"You win I leave the girl alone." Sherlock reasons: that dark edge is there in his tone.

"Nothing so straightforward, Mr. Holmes, a proper lady like Hermione gets to make the choice- not us." Ron explains like it's obvious.

"So what? I win you cut your contact with her down to old acquaintance. You see her only at group functions attended by Mr. Potter, and you stop putting pressure on Harry's marriage with your sister."

The red head smiles at the last bit, like it's the cherry on top of the cake. "And mine is even simpler. When I win, you keep the door to your flat closed." Ron sits forward in his chair, all the while his dark blue eyes locked with Sherlock's sky blue ones.

"I leave it open for the cat." Sherlock lies effortlessly, yet this man knows.

"And any other pretty little pussy that might wonder in." The red head crudely puts.

"With your language, it's a wonder she's not jumping at the chance to accept your proposal of marriage." Sherlock bites out.

"I tone it down for the ladies." Ron states dryly.

Sherlock sees it. The way Ron plays chess is emotional and efficient, he plans strategies only three steps in advice. There is a point where Ron could have possible won, moving a rook back instead of sacrificing it. And when Sherlock called check mate the red head gave him a look that could kill.

"I win." Sherlock states coldly, eyeing Ron with intent.

"She may not see it but you're not a knight in shining armor, Sherlock Holmes. You're the cold monster that needs slaying. You are incapable of giving her the warmth she needs. It's all a game to you. "Ron accuses, he stands and tips the board over in a fit. "Doesn't matter, even if she doesn't choose me. She will most certainly never choose you. No matter how clever you are, or pretty- because I know her; I've known her practically my whole life, and you she pities. You like puzzles, she likes to save lives. A humanitarian is what I think they are called, and in her eyes your kind of logic is a handicap. You are just another one of her endangered species." The boy no doubt met this as an insult, but Sherlock found himself flattered by being called an endangered species.

Ron stormed out, chess pieces still rolling across the floor. Sherlock had much to consider after his meeting with Ronald Weasley.

**Not Another Drug Bust**

Sherlock is getting better at picking up her soft footsteps on the stairs. Jon is standing at his side, they have just come in from investigating a case to find Sherlock's flat was once more hosting a drug bust. Lestrade sitting comfortably in Sherlock's chair looking arrogant as his goons helped themselves to his privacy.

There is a soft tap on the door frame before Hermione peeks in. "Is Crookshanks in here?" She asks noticing the people pilfering the apartment.

"What's this about, Greg?" She asks sweetly, stepping through the door.

Lestrade stands suddenly clearing his throat. His cheeks are red, "Drug bust."

"From the condition of his hair Sherlock has been clean for twelve months. The harshest drug you'll find are his nicotine patches in the top drawer of that cabinet. I swept his flat yesterday, when he was lecturing to me about the indigenous practices of the Yali people." Hermione states matter of fact.

Jon looks entertained.

And Sherlock looks upset. "My cigarettes?" He asks irritated.

"Donated them to a homeless shelter right along with those horrid house slippers of yours." Hermione righteously responds.

"What gives you the right to invade my flat?" Sherlock demands.

"At least I do it when you're home, you rummage through my things when I'm gone. Even stole a pair of my knickers." She reprimands his double standard views.

"I needed those for science." He declares.

"Then you could have asked." She tells him. He looks at her strangely like he doesn't believe she would have just handed over a pair of her silky knickers for his experiments.

"What kind of science needs lady's panties, exactly" Anderson dares to ask from the kitchen.

"None of your business Anderson." Sherlock snidely responds stepping between the view of Hermione and the man he was conversing with. She was too busy chatting up Lestrade to notice. "Turn around and advert your eyes, Anderson!" He yells at the man.

Anderson does what his told, peeking over his shoulder, when Sherlock turns his attention back to the pretty girl.

"Well Greg, if you don't have a warrant you need to leave." Hermione kindly informs.

Sherlock smirks. Jon shakes his head.

"His withholding evidence, again." Lestrade tattles. "This seems to be the only way that I can get him to cooperate."

"I thought you solved the 'Cheaper by the Dozen Case'?" Hermione asks turning to look at Sherlock.

"That was three days ago, perhaps if you came home once in a while you would know we are currently assisting Scotland yards in the disappearance of Brenda Brancoff." Sherlock informs her with an air of smugness.

"Hindering in more alike." Lestrade argues. Hermione waves her hand in Lestrade's direction, like his a pesky buzzing fly.

Sherlock smirks.

"The missing pregnant socialite?" Hermione asks.

"That would be the one, only she's not pregnant anymore. Brenda had her baby and someone dropped it off at the nearest shelter, last night." Sherlock confirms like whispering secrets in her ear.

Hermione turned and looked at **the** wall. "She's alive?" Hermione sounds hopeful.

"As of last night. The baby is alive and fairly healthy. It was a vaginal birth, according to the pediatrician." Dr. Watson shared.

"Are all of these your findings?" She asks turning to fully face the wall. Papers pinned up and red yarn connecting in an intricate web of knowledge.

"What Jon and I have discovered so far, yes." Sherlock states.

"Jon, will you find Crookshanks, he was probably chasing spiders when someone shut a cabinet on him." Hermione asks her eyes never leaving the wall her voice dreamy and focused on the composite in front of her.

"Sure." Jon tiredly agrees, walking into the other room, passing Anderson as the man again turns only for both of them to witness a most unnerving sight.

Hermione slips off her shoes and with far more grace then the consulting detective has ever managed, she steps up and stands, not unlike Sherlock has many times over the years, staring at the wall of knowledge.

Jon shakes his head and sets out to search for her cat before she begins to rip down the master piece that cost Sherlock many hours of sleep. Sherlock, however, is too shocked- unable to process exactly what she was doing. Mostly because no one has ever done anything like it in his life.

Anderson bellows, racing over to no doubt stop her, still in his catatonic state, Sherlock reaches out his palm on Anderson's chest to stop him. Anderson looks around confused? "Am I missing something?"

"Anderson, Hermione Granger. Now I suggest you go back to the kitchen and turn around, just like Sherlock has asked." Lestrade filled in, Anderson did just that staring over his shoulder in apparent curiosity at the strange sight unfolding before him.

Hermione ignored the commotion-her focus was on the facts. She pauses only long enough to reads post-it notes, emails or newspaper clippings before tossing them aside like unimportant drabble.

It takes a matter of thirty seconds and when she is done all that is left are the pictures of Brenda Brancoff, her husband Mitchell, their three older children, and the pastor that last saw her.

"She never left the church." Hermione tilts her head and comments like they are all a bunch of idiots for not having seen it.

"What?" Lestrade asks like she's mental.

"No one saw her leave the church because she never did. The pastor is lying he knows what happed to his childhood sweetheart." Hermione states still looking at the pictures.

"How could he lie? His a man of god." Anderson comments like a true man of faith.

"Perfect cover story. He became a man of god a week after Brenda married her husband. Pretty girl the eyes have a recessive blue ring around them, making them stand out. Her children have the same gene." Hermione comments she looks over her shoulder directly at Sherlock who blinks for the first time in twenty seconds, he looks up and actually sees.

In three strides he too is standing on the couch behind Hermione on the very edge practically pressing her into the wall.

"She never left the church..." He repeats like his on auto pilot, he reaches up and tears down the photo of the husband looking at it closely.

"Mitchell Brancoff knowingly married his half-sister. There were complications with the fourth pregnancy and when Brenda shared her concerns with her husband he forbade her from getting the gene test done. Only she did it behind his back. That was how she found out, that is what drove her to confession the day she went missing. The priest was her only confident outside her husband's family. Of course! Miss Granger you're brilliant." Sherlock declared looking down at her realizing she was hauled up between him and the wall. She was pressed into him and he could see how quickly her pulse was in a vein along her neck.

"So I have been told." She tells him, her voice shakes as she squeezing under his arm and steps off the couch just as Jon walks in with Crookshanks.

"Oh there you are my handsome boy." She declares taking her cat and all but running out the door, down the steps and to her flat.

Not saying good bye to either Jon or Greg, later hoping she didn't appear rude.

But when the soldiers look to their general- ready to go break down the fortress and rescue the missing mother- there standing on his couch looking lost staring out the door after a girl that just solved his case for him, is their fearless leader.

**Statistically Speaking**

Sherlock notes it's nearly seven and Miss Granger has not come inquiring after her cat whom is sitting in the open door way starring off down the stairs. Then Sherlock hears her door open and the arguing begans.

"Six months. I've given you six bloody months, now you need to come home." A man's voice demands.

Domestic disputes. Boring...

"It's not my home. Beside you need you move out of Ginny and Harry's house and..."

"Move in here with you and the sociopath." The man cuts in.

"No! Find your own path. You keep blaming others for casting a shadow over you but you never muster up the willingness to step into the sun. I'm tired of taking care of people. We don't want the same things." Hermione argues.

"No you want to be a modern woman, forsake children and husbands, and burn bras." The man, ignorantly comments.

"No, I want to use my brain and find a partner who's willing to use his." She smartly replies.

"Right, mom told me to let you sow your oats, that eventually you would choose me, choose a family. That if you really loved me you would come back. I love you, Hermione, why don't you love me?" He asked like an emotional fool.

Sherlock got up and made his way to the door standing behind Crookshanks watching the drama as it unfolded. I was Ronald, of course it was the red headed bloke, that's skull was thicker than a woodpecker's.

"I love you too, bu..." Hermione started to say, but is slammed against the wall, Ron's mouth sloppily on top of hers. Sherlock is half way down the stairs when she manages to push Ron off her. Sherlock has him in a Master Lock also known as a wrenching full nelson and is cutting off his air supplies.

"Damn it, Ronald!" She curses. "But I don't see you the way you seen me. Obviously!" She's yelling. That is when she notices Ron's puce face.

"Let him go, Sherlock." She demands. And Sherlock does, pushing Ron towards the door. The red head stumbles as he tries to catch his breath.

"He tried to kill me!" Ron finally was able to bellow.

"You assaulted Miss Granger." Sherlock replied calmly. "And I did not try to kill you_, Ronald_." Sherlock says the red head's name like his an infectious disease. "If I had you would be dead. There are eight possible ways to ensure your death, and I don't even know where you live. But are staying with Harry Potter are you not?" Sherlock asks, but the detective knows, that every word out of his mouth has been a threat.

Ron looks at Sherlock like his rightfully afraid. _Good the boy wasn't a complete idiot_.

"You want to live next door to him, the sociopath that is one murder away from psychopath? Your words, Hermione, not mine." Ron shouts.

"Yes, but at his age the statistics of him making that step is marginally smaller than the one of you being a controlling and abusive spouse. Five counts of assault now. I'll stick with the high functioning sociopath." She shouts. Sherlock takes her hand in his, mostly to piss of Ron, but partly because that was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about him.

"Goodbye Ronald." she says motioning towards the door her hand remaining warm in his as she treads their fingers together.

"Yes, Ronald, I'll be seeing you around." Sherlock smiles darkly as Ron lets himself out of 221 Baker street.

* * *

A/N: Petit chaton (French for little kitten) I think. Hope everything is structured to make sense. The scene where Hermione meets Mycroft was the original inspiration of this story. It was written with the scene about the train and the missing car, and the hat. After the rest of the story began to take shape, I changed the scene to reflect a scarf and the ploy of Moriarty's supposed resurrected; a case Sherlock never solved...now he knows why. This is suppose to be three years after the events of the third season of Sherlock- in case someone didn't pick that up from Cheryl's age. I haven't decided on Hermione's age. There is a significant age difference in her and Sherlock I just haven't decided what that is yet, which is really the hesitation with chapter 3. Review if you feel inspired to do so. Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Villain in the Pub**

They were on a stake out. Sherlock had not been forthcoming with information, nothing new on that end. So when the famous detective showed up at Doctor Watson's townhome with Hermione in tow leaving her with Mary and the kids then taking Jon out on a new case, the doctor had been thrilled.

Hadn't asked any questions.

That was three hours ago. Now Jon's arse was falling asleep as Sherlock's eyes haven't left the pub since they parked, and the detective refused to let him leave the vehicle- Small talk was defiantly in order.

"Fine girl, Hermione. I was thinking of setting up with Charlie Bucket." Jon casually started.

"I thought you liked Miss Granger?" Sherlock snidely inquired.

"I do." Jon cleared his throat. "I do, it's just she seems lonely is all, fine girl like that deserves a good bloke, someone as lovely as she is and Charlie, well his heart is made of pure gold." Jon explains.

"Lonely? Did she say she was lonely? Why would she be lonely, she has friends coming out of the woodworks, not to mention I live right up the stairs from her…keep my door open." Sherlock ranted still his eyes remained fixated on the pub.

"No she didn't say anything, but she's a real kind girl, I think that her and Char…" The doctor is cut off.

"Kind? She does her own private drug raid on my flat at least once a week. Donates my favorite clothes to charity, and downright refuses to accompany me on any of my cases." Sherlock growls.

"So you have asked her, out on…cases." Does Jon sound jealous?

Sherlock turns and looks at Jon like being caught in a potential lie. "She always suggests I take you." The detective looks somewhat upset over this but suddenly the detective understands Miss Granger's insistence- Sentiment.

Jon doesn't know rather to be offended or thankful. "Sweet girl. I like her, myself. I can see why you like her." Jon tells his friend.

Sherlock's gaze has once more fixated on the pub and when he says nothing more to Jon's assessment, the doctor realizes Sherlock is done talking about this subject, especially since it involves feelings.

"Who are we waiting for?" Jon asked.

"The invisible man." Sherlock stated, his eyes fixed on the pub, watching as another young group of university students leave.

"Bit of a young crowd. Hermione's age group." Jon states off handedly. Then he turns and looks at Sherlock like the detective is a dirty peeping tom.

"What case are we working on exactly? You didn't say." Jon comments.

"And you didn't ask." Sherlock responds throwing Jon a green hand knitted scarf. "Lifted it off an invisible man in an alley way. I saw his face for only a moment from my hiding spot as he frantically searched for the scarf, before I grew bored."

"You stole a man's scarf, why?"

"So I could return it." Sherlock says climbing out of the car as the blond emerges from the pub,

Knowing Jon will follow.

"Oi!" Sherlock shouts, it sounds weird coming out of his mouth but the young man turns, his blond hair remarkably in place, his features angular and handsome, his eyes are cruel and taunting.

"Lost your way grandpa, on the wrong side of town?" The boy laughs, there is a dark haired girl at his elbow clinging to him in contrast to the way the youth ignores her, and she snickers rudely.

"Not, exactly, I live nearby. Thought I recognized you." Sherlock half lied. The young man turned up his aristocratic nose _he was arrogant and from money, very old money_.

"Not likely, I'm new to your culture." The young man says this coldly; like it's an inside joke. The dark haired girl in at his elbow looks disgusted by his comment and over everything around her except the man she's holding on to.

"I think you dropped this." Sherlock states taking the green scarf from Jon and offering it to the young man.

The young man didn't bother to hid the fact he was pleased to see it or deny it was his.

The blonde's date, however, looked at the scarf like it was only fit for the garbage.

"I thought it lost, where did you find it?" The blond asked with a sly smirk.

"On 5th, must have snagged on something been carrying it around in the off chance I would run into you again." Sherlock again lied. The scarf had led the detective right to the invisible man.

"How thoughtful. I am very fond of this scarf you see." The blond explained shifting his weight as he took the scarf in an almost loving embrace.

"Really." Sherlock asked watching with a keen interest. This man was what everyone else thought the detective was, the blonde was a psychopath.

"Yes, it was made for something else, you see, but I wanted it, so I took it." The young man smirked again. Looking at Sherlock with challenging grey eyes that told the detective what he needed to know.

Sherlock tried not to look like he wanted to punch the boy in the face. He had been face to face with many psychopaths, serial killers, and mad men, but in this moment he hadn't felt the hatred bubbling inside him over any of the evil he faced the way it was at this moment.

The blonde suddenly looked very dangerous the kind of man that liked to play games and to win, "Tell that little cunt that she will be coming for me soon enough. I'll see her at the Ministry. Maybe then we can have a formal introduction, Sherlock Holmes." The young man mocked shrugging the dark haired girl off him and walking away, while wrapping the green scarf around his neck, whistling a haunting tune.

"Well his a delightful chap." Jon's sarcasm doesn't register with Sherlock.

"Jon, Miss Granger is in trouble." Sherlock sounds mildly alarmed.

"So this case of the invisible arsehole is hers is it? One that she hired you to look into?" Jon asked.

"No." Sherlock tells him as the detective practically runs to the car.

"No?" Jon asks his humor gone, "Then why…?" the doctor looked confused.

"Because, Jon, Miss Granger is in trouble." Sherlock repeats more forcefully.

Hermione slammed the door in his face when Sherlock confronted her about the psychotic blonde.

Sherlock uses his key to let himself into her flat.

"Why didn't you ask for my help?" He yells at her.

_Stupid girl_.

"Because I don't need it nor do I want it!" She screeches back. "You worm your way into my life and turn my heart upside down. You complicate things. I don't need you complicating this."

"What is this? What game are you playing?" Sherlock asks and she looks at him like his an idiot.

"You should never have confronted the snake. I had every Eventuality planned out, every eventuality except the one where you get involved." She is angry, and his proud of himself for catching on that her anger is about more than the crazy bloke stalking her.

"Men like him will burn the world down to get what they want." Sherlock tells her hoping she can understand the severity of the picture he paints.

"It's a war, Sherlock, and I have kept him at bay for six years. I moved out of Harry's to regroup, to plan my final move against him. I was very careful so he wouldn't find out where I lived. Always traveled in crowded areas with cameras, never leaving the flat or returning in the same way or at the same time. All to stall him: to keep him from his final end game, just a little longer." Hermione is pacing, she turns to shoot him a scratchy glare then she turns her back on him.

Sherlock approaches her from behind like stalking a frighten animal. He had never seen her truly upset, but it didn't take Jon to tell him, somehow the detective had crossed a boundary he had not been aware existed. "So what is the psychopath's final end game, Miss Granger? What is he talking about with the Magistracy?" his standing right behind her so when she turns and looks at him her golden eyes harden into amber, Sherlock feels an unfamiliar sensation in the pit of his stomach. Fear? Anticipation? Regret? His really not sure.

"Having a bill passed that will ensure registration for all endangered species, so they can be cataloged and bred, to prevent extinction." She explains, the ice back in her voice.

"I thought your goal was to save endangered species?" the law sounds like something a humanitarian would promote not rally against.

"Some endangered species should die out, Mr. Holmes." The conviction in her tone is righteous, and it is apparent she has been keeping secrets.

"I'm missing something. What are you hiding, Miss Granger? What evidence are you withholding?" He is angry himself, now shouting at her, she wasn't supposed to lie to him.

"Secrets I can't share, because they aren't just mine. I didn't ask for your help, I didn't want it. I told you I'm not your damsel in distress. I don't want to lie but you're such a difficult man… Please don't make me lie, not to you. Just leave me alone." She's begging. Her pride stripped down and she is staring at him with her big golden eyes melting and swirling with so many emotions as she stares up at him and for the first time since she looked at him like that he understands what it means.

"Want does the invisible man want?" Sherlock asks calmly, his anger is diffused by that look, by what honesty she can afford.

"My life." Hermione states like it is so simple.

"How do we stop him?" Sherlock asks, aware of how willingly he is to follow her into battle.

"We attend a very boring meeting and pray my time at Oxford was not wasted." She explains in a whisper and Sherlock like a sentimental fool, pulls her into a tight hug.

_Silent promises for silent honesty_.

**Playing Parliament**

Draco Malfoy is waiting for her outside of Parliament. His in a crisp white suit and a Kelly green tie and looks like his just won the crown jewels and all that entails.

Malfoy smirks arrogantly when he sees her and Hermione is suddenly thankful that Sherlock Holmes has claimed the place at her side.

"You look lovely, mudblood." The snake hisses.

Sherlock is not familiar with the insult, but from the tone it is certainly derogatory.

Sherlock flinches and wonders if this is what Jon feels when people insult the detective; this urge to protect, to smash people's faces in?

"Ah, cockroach, I see you crawled out of the gutter long enough to grace us with your radiant presence." Hermione greets in her fitted black pants suit, white silk dress shirt and single strand of pearls. Her hair in an interacted braid along her head, so very beautiful and incredibly professional looking with that soft touch of femininity, Sherlock admired about her.

Sherlock stands at her side, his hand not quite touching the small of her back. He has chosen to wear his black suit, all black: it was one of his more formable looks, along with the parlor of his skin and high cheek bones- he didn't need to be told how scary he looked. The sly look the blonde gave him as they approached, boarding on disinterest, but it was a lie, Sherlock could read it just as clearly as he could read what the invisible man had for breakfast that morning, the blond snake was rightfully intimidate by the detective.

"Think your funny, don't you?" Malfoy barked, eyeing Hermione with warring interests.

"I have never been known for my humor, but then you were always able to make us laugh." she sighs like simply talking with the fool was a boring endeavor, and Sherlock can't help but admire her turn of phrase and the way she plays the game when motivated.

"I'm going to make you laugh, mudblood, then cry, then beg." The blonde threatens adjusting his tie, his eyes swirl with more emotion then his face expresses.

"Oh, how terribly rude of me. Sherlock Holmes this is the Amazing bouncing ferret, Ferret, Mr. Holmes." Hermione introduces them and Mr. Malfoy looks irritated that she even bothered.

"Formal introductions." Sherlock says holding out his hand. Mr. Malfoy looks like he would rather bite it than shake it.

"Ah, yes the simple man." Malfoy states looking at Sherlock like the detective is the biggest joke ever.

"I don't think I have **ever** been called simple." Sherlock smiles withdrawing his hand, the other one still hovering protectively at Miss Granger's back.

"No? You might be cleaver, but you're still just a man, Mr. Holmes. Incredibly fragile and easy to kill." Malfoy states then turns his back on them and enters the building.

"How incredibly ambitious of him and completely unoriginal. I have been killed before." Sherlock comments with an eye roll.

"Yes, darling, well snakes aren't known for their creativity, or intelligence." Hermione comforts the detective, her hand over his heart before she turns and enters Parliament. Sherlock's heart is suddenly pounding in his chest.

_Did she just call him darling_?

With that thought all he can do is follow her into her final battle.

It suddenly all made complete sense. Sherlock sat in the boring legislative meeting listen to the new bill proposal and how the document was worded and understood why Miss Granger would find fault with passing such a bill into a law.

It took away free will and did not indicate what species the bill would pertain to; while the clause was hidden in fancy words and bureaucracy nonsense, it was blatantly apparent to anyone with a smidgen of intelligence, a potential violation of human rights.

Draco Malfoy sat smugly overseeing the congressional and Sherlock could tell the snake thought he had a victory: that this proposal would pass as is without fail.

However, Sherlock had played many games with Miss Granger over the last several months, and that was the only reason he saw what the other man couldn't.

Miss Granger always won, because she understood the rules.

Everyone knew the rules, but she understood them and how to play within the boundaries they set. She didn't diverge or try to cheat, she was too moral for that, no she played the game within the rules and on the edge of the rules and by accepting those limitations she was limitless in strategies and in victories.

Jon was right she was a good person. This revelation was shocking, disturbing, and Earth shattering.

Truly good, honest people simply did not exist- but there she sat beside him looking captivated by every boring word said.

The wedding with Molly, her helping with Lestrade's mother, even her with Jon and Mary, all evidence that supported that she was in fact a truly good girl. Not to mention the way she looked after the detective himself- Sherlock hadn't wanted a cigarette in weeks and wasn't even using the nicotine patches.

He turned and looked at her like the final piece of the puzzle made sense and it was so mind boggling that Sherlock could not move or speak all he could do was stare at her and how pretty she looked and when her master victory unfolded and that bright smile lit up her beautiful face: Sherlock was blinded.

When Sherlock was able to blink the room was dark and everyone had cleared out. Jon sat where Hermione had been looking at his friend expectantly.

"Come back to the world of the living have you?" Jon asks pulling out a flash light and shining it in the detective's eyes.

Sherlock waves him off irritated. "Where did everyone go?" Sherlock asked looking around at the dark room.

"Home, I expect. But no doubt when you say everyone, you mean Hermione. I sent her out with her friends to celebrate. The bill was declined, called unconstitutional." Jon explained.

"And she just left me here, without…?" Sherlock asked sitting back and folding his arms in front of him like a pouting child.

"Well she tried to get you to respond, but you just stared at her all creepy like: You know like you did with me when I asked you to be my best man. She didn't know what to do so she called the only doctor she knew that wouldn't want to murder you in such a weaken state. I reassured her of your episodes and that I would look after you until you came around." Jon explained… "So did she tell you she loves you?"

Sherlock turned to look at Jon like the man needed some medical help himself.

"No? So you realized you love her then?" Jon suggested. Sherlock turned away from his friend dismissively.

"Better to keep your romantic notions in that blog of yours." Sherlock bites out. Wishing Miss Granger would have simply abandoned him to the empty courtroom.

There is silence, Jon sitting back in his chair waiting for Sherlock to explain what just happened.

Then Sherlock uses both his hands to wipe his face and turns to the doctor clearly ready to share his revelation. "You were right Jon, she's a good girl. Honest and trustworthy." Sherlock whispers like a confession.

"Yeh? So Charlie Bucket, then?" Jon perks up, he is teasing his friend but Sherlock shoots him a paralyzing glare.

**Logical vs. ****Illogical**

Sherlock finally gets Hermione to the morgue only for her to be clucking about with Molly. A compelling homicide, laying ready to reveal a murder and they are talking about babies.

"So have you found out the gender yet?" Hermione asks, she's perched up like a graceful bird on the counter overseeing the morgue. She was wearing purple today, and she reminded Sherlock of a plum. They were distracting. He pulled out his magnified glass and began to search for clues trying to focus on the case at hand.

"A boy. Peter and I have been discussing names. I like Roger and Randy but Peter preferred…"

"No sensible man wants to name his son after university codes that suggest shagging." Sherlock shouts.

"Oh!" A frightened Molly looks to Sherlock, then back to Hermione. Clearly use to the man's rude comments.

"What names do Peter like?" Hermione urged ignoring the detective.

"Martin and Allen." Molly stated looking to Sherlock for apparent approval.

Hermione patted Molly's hand kindly, "He might be an expert on many things but raising a child is not a skill, Sherlock Holmes has mastered."

"Or will ever." Molly whispers.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asks looking shocked by the possibility.

"He doesn't want any." Molly shares.

"I never said I didn't want any I said having them was Illogical." Sherlock argued from across the room.

"Well if you don't want children you shouldn't have them. Besides it's not like anyone is asking you to breed with them." Hermione turns and looks at him from over her shoulder, smiling cheekily. "However, Mr. Holmes you are mistake it is completely logical to want children- due to genetic encoding. Its biology's way to insure the survival of a species."

"They are sticky, loud, and a safety hazard." Sherlock shouts with a less scientific argument.

"I could say the same about you." Hermione smartly replies turning her back to him, Molly covers her mouth to prevent from laughing.

"Miss Granger, breeding is a dirty affair that has more to do with instinct and feeling then logic." Sherlock is all worked up and he doesn't completely understand why, starring at the girl in purple with her soft hair cascading down her back in chocolate curls.

"You know your lips just moved but I swear the words that come out sound like ignorant fear…that can't be right? Because Sherlock Holmes isn't afraid of anything." She is baiting him, again turning to stare at him with ice eyes and he doesn't like it - the way she makes his heart hammer to a point of irrationality.

"Are you going to help me with this case or sit around and flap your fanny?" He rudely asks, forcing his body to calm down.

"High heel to the head…Jealous lover, boring… you promised me coffee." She accused looking away from him again.

Okay so Sherlock might have offered to take her out for coffee as a rues for getting her St. Bartholomew's.

"The hospital has coffee, Molly." He dismissed the woman who was standing there simply watching their argument like it was a play on the tele.

Hermione still didn't trust Sherlock to prepare foods or drinks, particularly after reading about the Hound of Baskerfield, so she gave Molly a sweet smile in hopes for a little cream in hers.

"So, please tell me, Miss Granger, what is so compelling about breeding?" Sherlock inquires when Molly has left, his attention presumably back to the corps in front of him.

"Observational study, Sherlock. Children are like little scientist learning and growing with each new discovery. True there is some crying and the occasional mess, not unlike some of your own experiments. But you get to watch all that, to guide and teach them: A lifelong student." She made it sound far more appealing than it ever has before.

"What is the end gain?" Sherlock asks gathering his final clues for the mystery murder: _jealous lover, found out he was married, high heel to the temple._

"To watch your children take their turn on the world stage, knowing that the future is not solely in the hands of any idiot that knows how to shag." Hermione is such a sensible girl and her rationality actually is compelling to the detective.

"What were you doing at Oxford? You got a doctorate, but that was a ruse, what were you really doing there?" Sherlock changes the subject, her answer about children sparking an idea he had been toying with.

"Making friends." She explains and he is sure there is more to it than that.

"With children of parliament _representatives_." He is not asking his telling her, letting her know he finally figured it out.

"A few, yes. I was also show casing vast knowledge of animal rights, so I could be called as an expert witness if needed." Hermione informs him. She had after all stated she had every eventuality calculated except the one where he got involved.

"Why would you go through such lengths?" Sherlock sounds suspicious.

"It was my mess, I had to clean it up." She is saved by having to explain what she means when Molly's returns with their coffee. But Sherlock has had his own arch nemeses and his pretty sure he understands once again what she is saying.

**Curiosity is not a Sin**

Hermione is sitting on his kitchen table cross legged, his laptop open in front of her. They were spending time together, she was leaving on holiday that evening and so he persuaded her to help him work on a case with him before her cab arrived. Only her eyes have not left the screen to the lap top all day. She appears captivated by Jon's romantic renditions of their adventures. Sherlock knows she has been reading them since Molly's wedding, when she finds the time. But Sherlock does not know how far Hermione has gotten, mostly because she hasn't even attempted to discuss them with him. Not one question or inquire- not like others that read the blog.

Sherlock is attempting to work on the first case he has had in weeks- to look through the diagram of clues he has pinned on the wall, his attention, however, is more compellingly on her; then the task at hand.

Therefore, when she violently slams the lid to his computer and at looks up at him like his a sociopath he is only mildly surprised.

"Billy Kincaid, really?" She asks, only it's an accusation.

"Did Jon include my explanation? Logically…" Sherlock starts to rationalize slowly making his way to the kitchen like approaching a hungry lion.

"Right the death of hundreds of children and a few garrotes are not enough to condemn a criminal king pen but a few thousand illegally made dollars donated to charities is enough to praise him." Hermione replies, swinging her legs over the side of the table.

But his standing in front of her- his hands on her thighs, closer to her than he had been since he had her up against the wall; unintentionally presses into him so intimately.

She is too angry to care.

"Right, Jaine Crawford, never crossed your mind." She asks with that alluring ice in her voice.

"She's a woman, the question as I understood it was best man." Sherlock smartly reasons with an eye roll.

Hermione makes a frustrated face, "Paul Edgecomb, then" she bites out adjusting herself on the table, he steps into the opening her legs just make.

"Delusional liar." Sherlock argues. "Hardly the best man, he let an innocent man be executed."

"Alright how about..."

"If you say Harry Potter..." The detective warns. She looks at him like his crazy

"I wasn't."

"Good, I'm a bit worried about your friend especially knowing he was in prison and has access to your flat." Sherlock truly sounds concerned.

"Is that why you stole the key to my flat? To be my black knight?" She inquires.

Sherlock looks offended by the accusation "I borrowed the key, Miss Granger...and Mr. Potter said I could keep it, he also said he wouldn't tell you." Sherlock said this like it vindicated his theft.

"Right, my creepy neighbor happens to have a key to my flat, and my best friend is not going to tell me." It's her turn to roll her eyes at him.

"More like mysteriously, clever." His flustered only his never flustered. "I never used it unnecessarily." He reassured her.

"Right, like snooping and stealing my panties is necessary. Besides borrowed entails returning." Hermione states like catching him in a lie.

"I was doing an experiment on relevant materials in air travel." He explained.

"Well I am doing a study on the disappearance of tobacco products." She tells him with a giggle.

"Ah, so you're the culprit that keeps stealing my cigarettes." Another clue for the detective.

"Pack per panties." She informs him.

He glares at her.

"Why do you thing Harry has been in prison?" Hermione has suddenly gotten serious her eyes are on his lips and his hands shift from her thighs to her hip.

"He carries a shank on him." Sherlock explains his voice has dropped an octave and she shifts her weight her hands griping his forearms.

"A Shank?" she asks not grasping what he just told her. Sherlock smiles wickedly he likes the feeling of knowing something that perhaps she doesn't.

"Common prison weapon. In Mr. Potter's instance a sharpened stick, he nearly shoved it up my nose." Sherlock tells her watching as her focused shifts from him to his words.

She looks at him like his mad, then her eyes sparked and clearly she understands what his saying.

"Up your nose?" She is clearly amused by this information.

"Nearly lobotomized me." Sherlock answered seriously. That was when she laughed. Like he just told another great joke. Her body jiggling against him, at his own expense and all he can do is stand there and wonder what is so funny.

"I don't see the humor in unauthorized brain surgeries. I thought he was a thief." Sherlock states very loudly.

She is still laughing she has let go of him and is bracing her weight on her palms, her body as far away from him as possible for the moment. He hands travel from her hips back down to her thighs.

She sifts her weight again and gets back to their original subject without explanation.

"Karl Popper, then." She asks her eyes still dancing with amusement.

"Closer, but not the best." He seems to understand they have come to a standoff on other subject matters. Her skirt shifts and his attention is caught by the newly exposed flesh, even though she favored skirts and dresses, she usually sat far more lady like then she currently was up on his kitchen table, legs spread, skirt ridding up… it was a distraction he refused to acknowledge.

"Right he just wrote the book on the relativity of logic in science." Hermione argues sitting back up once more adjusting herself.

Sherlock stopped whatever was going to come out of his mouth- it simply got swallowed down and before he rationally thought about consequences he did the most logical thing of all, what he had been wanting to do since he first heard her play the piano.

He kissed her.

He was not polite about it either. He slammed his mouth into hers and bloody hell went for it. Passionately ravishing that smart mouth of hers.

It took her three seconds to respond, he was expecting her to push him back just as she had the red headed git that wanted to marry her, only she presses herself into him and opens her mouth for him to plunder. And like a pirate he seizes the opportunity to steal what treasures she allows him.

Sherlock is again shocked when her fingers do not thread into his hair; like so many other women's first instinct have been. Instead her hands find their way into his shirt caressing his sides, his chest, and his back. He does not break contact with her lips as he quickly unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off- allowing her better access.

His hot all over- in a dangerous and illogical way. He has never felt this, never, not with the woman with her lies and mind games.

This lack of control, this yearning to touch to hold, to consume, to protect- this belonged to Miss Granger.

He pulls Hermione's shirt over her head with that thought, he wants to touch her, his lips leave her for a second and that is long enough for her brain to catch up with her emotions. He sees it instantly and when he dips back in to kiss her again her heat is nearly gone, there is a blush on her cheeks and she is covering her chest clearly embarrassed.

Sherlock realizes she's far more logical then him in that moment.

His a pirate, and to crudely put it all he wants to do is bury his treasure.

He sighs heavily and curses himself.

Without concern or thought to their lack of clothing he grabs ahold of her and pulls her in to a tight hug.

_That's it. If this is how it ends so be it_.

But he won't have her afraid of him nor ashamed or embarrassed of herself.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispers sincerely. His hand stroking the soft plains of her back- a desire born in thanks to that ridiculous red dress he likes so much.

Hermione's arms timidly rise to hold him in return wrapping around his waist and up his back, her breast pressed flat against his bare chest. It's the most intimate moment of his life, and he was no blushing virgin.

Somehow her lips tenderly touch his and her single kiss is filled with more emotion than any word could do justice. He holds her tighter and just to prove his capable kisses her back just as tenderly.

There is nothing in this moment but honesty ripped to its core.

His not being seduced, lied to, or manipulated. It's all so painfully real that if he lets go of her; his actually afraid he will wake up and find that she has been a dream or a terrible game orchestrated by his brother to remind him of Redbeard and the folly of love- of sentiment.

Her teeth nip his bottom lip, a silent command before her tongue dances with his, softly like they are waltzing to one of her compositions. He lets her lead, it's slower more sensual, and safer. She's arching up and into him as his right hand presses against the small of her back, his left has found its way under her skirt and to the inside of her thigh, his fingers curl around the band of her panties and her mouth opens wide a small moan escapes, his lips there mating with her call for him. Her fire is burning bright again and he fights the urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to his room like a savage brute.

Just as he makes the decision to behave less like a hormonal driven buccaneer, she unbuckles his belt...

And behind them someone clears their throat.

Sherlock wishes whoever it is a slow and painful death. Turning to step in front of a topless Hermione and finding none other than Jon Watson looking at them partly embarrassed and partly entertained. Okay Jon he simply wishes uncomfortable chaffing on.

"I'm a doctor, I've seen...it..." Jon perhaps is trying to be reassuring as Hermione puts her shirt back on. Sherlock is still standing between her legs, trousers unbuttoned. He doesn't seem to care for anyone's modesty but the girl's behind him. His hands still on her thighs to keep her from escaping.

"Did you need something?" Sherlock tried to sound casual but his heart is still beating too fast for the words to gain the effect.

"The door was open." Jon commented pointing to the open door.

"I keep it open for the cat." Sherlock points out.

"Well maybe you should shut it if you're planning on ravishing your girlfriend on the kitchen table." Jon suggests.

"It was a spontaneous decision, Jon." Sherlock pointed out.

"You are finally admitting she's your girlfriend then." Jon asks.

"I..." Sherlock freezes up, his brain kicking into overdrive.

Hermione pushed on his back, "Let me down please." She requests calmly, he really had no reason to object so he moves.

She hops down and looks at Jon, "I'm not his girlfriend." She challenges, then walking out and to her flat.

"Too bad." Jon states to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked ill.

"Why would she say that? After we just practically. On the table?" Sherlock asked Jon truly looking confused.

"Because you hesitated. Because she's odd. Not like a normal bird."

"No she's not." Sherlock states like it's the final puzzle piece.

"Sorry, you came over for a reason." Sherlock states looking at his friend.

"Your mum called." Jon stated and Sherlock groaned.

"You told her didn't, you. About Miss Granger."

"Hermione, you practically...Had... a girl on your kitchen table, you can call her by her first name…No, Mycroft beat me to it."

"Damn." Sherlock cursed.

"Your mom wants to have Christmas again with the little ones and your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Oh, yes she is." Jon argues.

When Jon leaves Sherlock goes down to explain to Hermione, that if she wanted, he wanted to be her _boyfriend._

That sounded weird and was completely inadequate on his feelings for her. Because damn sentiment! Logically his heart and brain wanted the same thing, both wanted Miss Granger to be a permanent fixture in his life.

He knocked on her door for five minutes then found himself shouting at her door for her to open up.

Then he remembered his key and helped himself into her flat.

It was empty. Her belongings just where they should be, but she was nowhere to be found and she took the Crookshanks.

"Christmas is in three days, Sherlock, she told you she would be out of town. That she was leaving tonight." Mrs. Hudson had finally came to the ruckus, reprimanding him like a disobedient school boy.

He stood there looking at Mrs. Hudson like there was a far more sinister plan a foot and the landlady was in on it.

"Don't look at me like that, I was standing in my kitchen when she told you as much last month. Heard every word." Mrs. Hudson said, "Not my fault you don't remember."

"She didn't say good bye. We nearly... not twenty minutes ago on my kitchen table, Mrs. Hudson. Why wouldn't she have said goodbye?" Sherlock shouts.

"You two hooked up! Finally, well that's good news." Mrs. Hudson gushed.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled clearly upset.

"Because she's Hermione and your Sherlock…too logical the both of you. Probably didn't think you'd care, you were busy with Jon when her cab arrived." Mrs. Hudson explained.

"Where is she spending Christmas?" Sherlock asked a bit more calmly.

"How am I supposed to know, she's very private, worse than you." Mrs. Hudson comments.

"Then what use are you!" Again he shouts. Marching upstairs and for the first time in months he slams his door shut.

Sherlock refuses to call her, if she wanted him to know where she was then she would have told him.

Thirty minutes later he is making a phone call.

Sherlock nicked the number months ago, just in case he had use of it. It rang twice when the Harry Potter picked up his phone.

"She said you might call." Mr. Potter greeted. Sherlock was momentarily shocked, quickly deciding Hermione must have given her mate the number for such opportunities.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asks, not overly polite.

"You're a consulting detective, Mr. Holmes. Clever man like you, read people- you don't understand them but you read them. You're always asking Hermione to play games. How about you and I play a game. Tell me the first time you meant, Hermione, what you read." Harry asked.

_A pop quiz._

"How is that relevant? It has been months any initial findings could have been modified during case study." Sherlock, feels his palms get sweaty. It's irrational the way his heart is speeding up.

"Spoken like a true scientist. Observational study is what you have been doing. Manipulating her surroundings watching how she reacted to certain stimulus. Did she exceed your expectations?" Harry asked.

There is silence and Sherlock knows Harry Potter is waiting for an answer.

"She always exceeds mine." Harry explains. "Hermione is a rare treasure. She understands you, Mr. Holmes, far more than you understand her. While you are clever- she is brilliant. And yet, she likes her oddities. You two are from different worlds. While you play games, she win them. Do you comprehend the pattern, Mr. Holmes? She told you any finding you made would be complete rubbish if you did not use the proper methods in obtaining your results." Harry explains.

Sherlock is breathing heavy; his angry, upset, and all he can think about is the lie of Redbeard.

"You are a far more emotional man then you pretend to be. Hermione is not a villain, she has not seduced or manipulated you in any way, at least not intentionally. You are the seductress, Mr. Holmes. The manipulator. While, Hermione, does have a dark side when defending the helpless, she is not a selfish woman. She gives with passion and loves completely. When she tells you her secret: we all have them, remember not all secrets are as simple as murder."

"Where is she?" Sherlock asks again the dark edge back in his tone- only Harry Potter doesn't sound intimidated by the detective's voice, he sounds amused.

"Australia, of course, it's Christmas." Harry states like Sherlock Holmes is daft.

Sherlock contemplates several different scenarios where he charges after the girl and demands answers. He considers asking Mycroft for help in tracking her down in Australia, but quickly decides against it, for three days he tries to track down Mr. Potter's address only to come away with a bad head ach and more questions than answers. Finally he decides he will go to his parent's house for holiday and cringe through the ridiculous custom, if only for Jon's benefit and wait for Miss Granger to return after the New Year.

This gives him plenty of time to figure out why the word boyfriend disturbs him but the thought of Hermione not in his life disturbs him even more.

Jon and Mary arrive with the kids. Sherlock is waiting in the front yard refusing to go into the house without them. Cheryl sequels running to him and hugging his leg- _well that's a first_.

"Where is she, where is she? I want Hermione!" Cheryl demands forcefully jumping up and down on top of Sherlock's shoe.

"Out of the country." Sherlock says this with as little emotion as he can patting the child on the head.

Mary frowns, "Oh? I was hoping she would be here, Albert started to crawl, and I wanted to surprise her. He hasn't had any colic since she gave me that medication, I wanted to thank her properly." Sherlock looked to chubby faced Albert whom had went from scrawny sickly looking infant, to health robust babe, with in the course of four months.

"She promised me a new story about a clever rabbit!" Cheryl complained clearly upset. "Guess it's back to dad's boring mysteries." The now four year old complained, running into the house.

Sherlock knew just how the little girl felt.

Mycroft arrived on time to embracing mother and sneak out the back door for a cigarette before dinner.

Sherlock could hear them all in the living room decorating and singing merrily, as he snuck out to join his brother. "Cigarette?" Mycroft offered holding out the pack.

The thought turned Sherlock's stomach.

"No." He declines watching the small quirk of his brother's lip.

"Don't know where she is do you?" Mycroft asks with dry amusement.

"Australia." Sherlock tells him looking back at the house and the way the windows glow against the twilight of the approaching night.

"Hum." Mycroft is thinking. "Last time we had holiday here, it ended with you stealing government secrets and shooting a man in the head." Mycroft observed.

Sherlock smiled, rocking back on his heels. "Yes, my second favorite Christmas." The detective announces.

Mycroft smiles. "It would be….Why haven't you asked me to track her down?" Mycroft asked. "You clearly don't know where she really is in Australia, which is why you are a nervous wreck." The big brother observes.

Sherlock shrugs. "I don't need to know, do I? She's not a damsel in distress, I'm not her knight in shining armor. You miss read my nerves for fear of her safety. Miss Granger can take care of herself."

"The anticipation of her return then, not nerves." Mycroft verbalizes. "I have a Christmas present for you little brother." The older man states snuffing out his cigarette. He reaches into his beige suit and pulls out a little velvet box. "It was nana's. Since I'm not getting married anytime soon…"

Sherlock takes the box and opens it and there in sitting elegantly in white silk is a golden ring decorated with diamonds, rubies and pearls. It's an antique a beautiful work of art.

"What am I supposed to do with a ring?" Sherlock inquires shortly.

"What men in love do, I imagine." Mycroft in that inferior tone of his when he thought his little brother was being stupid.

Presents were opened and when Cheryl opened a glittering small package before screaming in excitement and running over to her mum, an old book clenched to her chest, Sherlock hadn't really understood.

"Here you are, Sherlock, one more present." His mum commented dropping the light weighted rectangle box in his lap. It too was wrapped in glittering wrapping paper, his name on the tag- from Hermione.

He opened it slowly, the last time he had gotten a mysterious present from a woman he fancied she had faked her own death. Only it wasn't a locked phone with potential government secrets.

It was better.

He held up the black t-shirt in awe of its beauty. A Led Zeppelin concert shirt from the American tour in 1977 with a white outline of a male winged figure. This was wicked.

"Were did you get that?" Mycroft's voice dripping with envy as everyone stopped opening their glittering packages to witness the only Christmas present to have ever come close in comparison to the gift of man's best friend.

"Hermione." Sherlock said her name like a holy prayer, and Jon is the only one who understands the importance of the bridge Sherlock Holmes just crossed.

Sherlock was lounging on his couch a week after New Year staring at the velvet box Mycroft had given him, when Crookshanks walked through his door. The cat looked at Sherlock before making its way over to mantel and making himself comfortable.

"So your back." Sherlock greeted, Crookshanks simply ignored him.

Sherlock quickly got dressed, and looked around. His flat was a disaster he was in the middle of throwing out his latest experiment when Hermione walked through his door, in a yellow sundress her hair pulled back on the sides, she was smiling.

"Good holiday?" She asked casually, like the last several weeks had not been agony.

Sherlock stalked around the table as he answered her. "Delightful! ...What is in Australia?" He was blunt in asking, not caring if he sounded rude.

"My parents." She tells him. "They moved there at my urging some time ago, and they love it so much they refuse to move back. It's easier for me to visit them." She tells him casually.

"Your parents?" He is clearly shocked because she's not supposed to have any of those.

"Yes. They are dentists." she tells him. Nearly seven months of pulling answers out of her like pulling teeth and now its show and tell.

He shows her he has a heart and she tells him her secrets.

"What else did I get wrong?" Sherlock asks moving to stand in front of her with a pinched expression.

She pauses as if to think of everything he had said when they first meant. "I'm older than you think I am and I technically I wasn't running away from a lover, I was regrouping during a battle with my arch nemesis. Perception is a funny thing: Like you- for instance using preconceived conformities to guess what others are- how often are you wrong?" Hermione asks with a playful smile.

"Rarely and It's more scientific than that." He informs her.

"I know. " She reassures him still smiling.

"Jon believes there are some fundamental pieces missing from me. Like emotion." He says this like a warning. She's at arm's length and after so many weeks of pining after her all he can do is try and scare her off. What the hell was wrong with him? He can't even get his arms to move to hug her like his done countless times.

"Missing? Interesting." She comments like she doesn't believe it, she is looking up at him like she wants to touch him but she too is holding back.

"What is interesting?" Sherlock is suddenly afraid of the answer to a question that has plagued him his entire life.

"Anyone with eyes can see that Jon and his family mean a great deal to you and while you treat Mrs. Hudson with dismissive absurdity, you care for her too. You are far more emotional than any man of logic has the right to be. You're not broken, Mr. Holmes. Love is not the absence of logic but the nutrition of a starved mind. To see everything without feeling anything is logic's greatest flaw: its greatest weakness, because while you understand you can't comprehend without emotion."

"Without sentiment." Sherlock states his arm finally reaching for her; pulling her closer. His mouth claims hers and she is what he has missed, she had once cried at him that he complicated things because he had wormed his way into her heart, a declaration of love as loudly as it shone in her eyes when she looked at him. But the truth of it is she is the only person that has ever made sense to him, mind, body and heart, the only person he has every wanted to understand so thoroughly. Her ability to explain feelings and emotions in a sensible and rational way. Why did she have to be so brilliant, honest, kind and so irresistible?

"Sherlock, there is something I do need to tell you." she breathes in between kisses.

Sherlock simply cannot help the irrational suspicion that goes hand in hand with such a declaration.

"Unless it's that you're a lying, manipulative, back stabbing whore, then I think we're good." He reassure her kissing her again before taking a step away from her.

She laughs.

"Noting so dire, but if this is going to work between us I do need to tell you something about me…"

"Yes, I know you're French." He says this like it is one of the greatest sins since attending Oxford. "Moved here when you were what- eight. Your mother still uses French terms of endearments. I expect you can still speak your native tongue?"

"I speak five…well technically six languages. I can read nine." she explains looking at him confused.

"Nine is that all?" He asks with a rather high voice. How could she possibly know nine languages?

"Well yes. I have always been smart, but my class mates were generally eight to nine years older than me...that is until…Sherlock, when I was eleven I was faced with the prospect of being accepted into medical school or attending different kind of school…I know this might shock you …but I'm a…"

"Alien from outer space!" His only partly kidding- kind of hoping, that would explain her vast intellect.

"No a witch." She states matter of fact, like it's a common enough occurrence. "That is I have a bit of magic and Crookshanks well his part Kneazle a very intelligent breed of cat. Harry and Ron are wizards too. It really wasn't a decision when I found out I had magic. I couldn't do both, so I let the magic choose me. It was the most illogical decision I have ever made, and one I have never regretted." She tells him with a completely straight face.

Sherlock takes a step away from her considering her mental stability before quickly deciding that his shocked because he still believes her to be the most sensible person he had ever meant even after such a ridiculous declaration.

"Magic?...Prove it." He requests kindly enough for him. His not denying her statement after all he is the one that coined the phrase: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth. And her having a bit of magic on her side would explain how she was so bloody good at everything.

Hermione took a deep breath, shocked really on easily the complicated man was taking her news.

'_Prove it_.' He said: _easy enough_.

She walked over and opened his windows the sun was setting and so the rays filtered in casting the evening light into the detective's flat. She stood in front of the wall between the two windows the light surrounding her like a holy vision. A small breeze rises drifting into the flat seconds later her piano starts to play from downstairs, the complicated piece she had played for him months ago, Sherlock blinks wondering if this is the dream he feared.

"Anyone could be playing..." He begins to argue. Then his violin rises and begins to join in with tune of the piano. Sherlock stumbles backwards looking at her still cloaked in sunlight, flowers are drifting in on the breeze swirling and dancing around the room, flowers that are not found readily in London.

Sherlock is a rational man and it takes him ten seconds to rally his nerve and walk over to his floating violin, quickly checking that it was in fact playing by its self. The flowers are a romantic touch and Sherlock is easily convinced that Hermione Granger does in fact have a bit more magic than what she claims.

He slowly walks up to her, Hermione's eyes open and she is watching him- the hesitation on her own face tells him of her buried fears. The taunting children, _Freak_ they screamed at her when she was simply smarter than they were, _Freak _they screamed when she found the magic she was born with. Both the gifts she utilizes as a young woman to make her who she was today standing before him so honestly undone and so incredibly perfect.

"Will you dance with me, Miss Granger. " Sherlock asks offering his hand with a formal bowing. Understanding for the first time who someone, other than himself, truly is. Two weapons so perfectly shaped that while they can win many battles on their own, together they could win a war.

The relief on her face is enough to make him smile as he pulls her into his arms and together they waltz perfectly in tuned with each other: finally having found the perfect partner for all of life's adventures.

* * *

A/N: The end.

I know what I said in my notes at the end of the first chapter, if there are plot discrepancy please let me know- those I will change. I did try and stay on task, but I did end up cutting out ten pages of fluff that I ultimately deciding took away from the central plot.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

Charlie Bucket is from Charlie and the Chocolate factory: Jaine Crawford- Their eyes where watching god: Paul Edgecomb- The Green Mile: and Karl Popper is in fact a real person that wrote a book on the logic of scientific relativity.


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